Peach Blossom
by kitkatkelly
Summary: One-shot, for now. A teenaged Link attends Hyrule's annual Peach Blossom Festival, but something's missing.


The sun was getting uncomfortably warm. Link removed his hat, then worried about the state of his hair underneath and put it back on his head. He fidgeted on the stone bench. When would it be her turn?

As a child, he had always loved the annual Peach Blossom Festival. The delicate scent of the pink flowers, the odd-looking vendors selling even odder trinkets, the reminder that spring was just around the corner. But this year was different. This year was special. This year, he was sixteen years old, and more importantly, so was Zelda.

Every year at the festival, during the magical hour when day becomes night and faces are bathed in a rosy glow to match the sweet blossoms, the newly-come-of-age Hylians would dance. And everyone knew that whoever a young lady chose as her partner during the Peach Blossom Dance would be her beau for that summer. Link was going to ask Zelda, and he had been praying to the goddesses all year that she would say yes.

But that was at dusk, and it was only mid-afternoon. There were hours to go and he couldn't sit still. He tapped his foot impatiently, out of rhythm with the Goron drumbeat coming from the dais, before getting up and checking the roster for the twentieth time. Zelda was still half a dozen performances away, after the Kokiri children's chorus and a Zora harpist. He didn't know why any of them bothered, since Zelda was obviously going to win. Nobody played the ocarina like her. When she put it to her lips, the sound was warm, inviting, faraway and haunting all at once. It made him think of slaying monsters and rescuing princesses, of being a hero, doing important things. It made him want to impress her.

He scuffed his boot on the dusty ground. He was rubbish at music. She'd tried to teach him to play once, and graciously smiled at the awful squeaks he produced. He'd wanted to throw the ocarina at the nearest tree. But when she gently took it from him and played a melody that made the birds sing in envy, he couldn't believe it was the same misshapen blue lump he'd held.

"It's a song of the forest," she'd said, with the smallest, sweetest smile he had ever seen. "Sing to the trees and they'll sing back."

He was jarred out of recollection by a yell from one of the Goron drummers. The bulky yellow creatures grinned maniacally as they pounded their instruments with rock-like fists, harder and louder as they reached the finale of their song. Just as Link was starting to wince from the sheer volume, the biggest one raised both stubby arms in the air and came crashing down on his drum with a force that Link was astonished didn't break the thing.

He clapped with all the others and glanced up at the sun where it hung in the sky. Still only halfway through the afternoon. He rose and wandered over to the vendors' booths on the other side of the square. A tall man in a long brown mask beckoned children over to see his colourful potions in tiny bottles, promising everything from super strength to luck in love. A little girl guarded rows and rows of shiny bugs in glass jars. A boy not much older than Link polished silver swords and shields. A fat woman in a purple dress sat on a stool as puppies milled about her legs; he wasn't sure whether she was selling them or just loved dogs.

Eventually he heard the strains of a harp and headed back over to the stage. The Zora played elegantly as Link's palms began to get moist, knowing that Zelda was next. The song seemed to go on forever. At last she strummed the final few chords and he dutifully applauded with the crowd, craning his neck to watch for Zelda. The applause died down. Any moment now she would emerge from behind the curtain and transform the world with her music.

But she didn't.

The players only waited a few minutes before moving on to the next act. By then Link was frantic. Zelda loved playing her ocarina more than anything, and she had been talking about the festival for weeks. He pushed through the crowd and ducked behind the curtain. There was no sign of her.

He emerged from the curtains to see Zelda's parents, and the look on their faces made his heart pound. As he walked over to them he saw the blue ocarina in her mother's hand. They caught his eye and begged him for answers. Had he seen her? Did she say anything? Did he know where she was?

They had been walking around the market in the square, her mother tearfully explained. They turned around and she was gone. It wasn't like her to wander off. Just then her father had caught a glimpse of a large man with a dark cloak headed down an alleyway, and something about him gave him a chill. They followed him into the alley, but after a few twists and turns, they lost sight of him. Then they found her ocarina on the ground.

Link demanded they take him to the alley, and the three searched the streets as the sun's light waned. It was almost dusk; the others would be pairing up for the dance soon. He could hear the music coming from the square, fiddles and flutes mixed with girlish laughter. All Link could think was that the sun setting would make it harder to look for her.

The figure loomed before him suddenly, and something about his presence made Link step back. Zelda's mother began to cry out but stopped abruptly. Link looked back to see Zelda's father lying on the cobblestones. He ran to him.

"LINK."

His chest pounded like the Goron drums and blood rushed to his head. He turned.

"Lost your princess, Link?"

The cloaked figure's voice boomed through the tiny alley. All Link could see under the hood were two rows of grinning white teeth.

"You'll never find her, stupid boy." There was a cackle of laughter like lightning cracking - and then he was gone.

But he _would_ find her. He had to. He thought of the boy polishing the swords, and the coloured potions. He would do whatever it took. He would find her and bring her back, his Zelda, and she would play her ocarina for him, and they would dance-

He sobbed. And then he rose.

He would find her.


End file.
